


Juvenile

by momebie (katilara)



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-11 23:34:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3336941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katilara/pseuds/momebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>@loversdiction</b> juvenile, adj.:  I am rubber and you are glue. Which means, at the moment, we’re both pretty toxic. (<a href="https://twitter.com/loversdiction/status/555514352598798336">x</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Juvenile

The sun has dropped behind the mountains and left a burnt halo crowning the deep purple peaks in the distance. Ronan gets lost in the color for a moment as he accelerates up the on ramp and narrowly avoids running into the back of a tractor trailer by blowing around it on the shoulder. The rumble lines sing under the BMW's tires and the truck lets out an angry bellow of its horn. Ronan throws a middle finger up even though he knows the driver won’t be able to see it from his higher vantage point. Or maybe because of that. It’s a wonder he doesn’t get into more road rage related fist fights, really.

He’s itching in a way he can’t scratch. It feels like his blood is boiling just beneath his skin. If he could crawl out of himself and cool down he would. If he could crawl out of himself it might solve a lot of his problems actually.

_Don’t do anything stupid_ , Gansey had said to him as he left. They both knew it was a waste of breath. Ronan’s in one of those moods to go looking for stupid and Gansey knows that his admonishments only ever make Ronan angrier, more anxious. He has a mother, absent as she is, and he doesn’t need another. Gansey means well, but intention only ever matters so much.

His destination is a glowing fast food oasis about ten miles outside of Henrietta. He licks his lips as he draws closer and skips ahead a couple of songs on his iPod until he finds something that sounds the way he feels, all pattering highs and thumping, reluctant lows. Uneasy. Incomplete. He toggles the windows down and cranks it, hoping it sets the right tone for his arrival.

The parking lot is littered with cars and their owners. Most of the cars are brightly colored monstrosities backed into the spaces with their hoods up. Ronan pulls into the farthest space at the edge of the lamp glow and climbs out, leaving the windows rolled down.

Skov is the first to notice him. He nods, not taking the straw from his milkshake out of his mouth. Jiang offers him his fist and Ronan bumps it with his loosely curled fingers. Prokopenko eyes Ronan warily from behind Swan, who flicks the ash from his cigarette by way of greeting. Ronan and Kavinsky may have painted themselves as rivals, but the rest of his gang is usually indifferent at worst, which is exactly the sort of attention Ronan thinks he needs right now. Not Gansey’s need for answers or Adam’s heavy curiosity or Noah’s ability to see right through him. He just wants to be carried in an eddy for a while. 

"K’s over there," Jiang says, tilting his head towards a covered eating area. When Ronan looks he sees Kavinsky sitting on top of a table with his feet spread wide across the bench.

"Thanks, man." Ronan hitches his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans and ambles over, greeting a few familiar Aglionby faces on the way.

"Ronan, my man," Kavinsky says as Ronan pulls up under the bright lights. He leans back on the table, supporting himself on the palms of his hands. His t-shirt rides up just enough for Ronan to make out the dark hairs sitting just below his stomach. "Have you met Donovan? Donovan here just put a NOS hookup in his piece of shit Supra and I was telling him it wasn’t an excuse for real power. What do you think?"

Ronan shakes the guy’s hand. “Any way you can chase the speed,” he says mildly. Donovan nods, the brim of his ball cap casting a swinging shadow across his dark skin as he does so.

Kavinsky grins, wide and lazy. “Ever the optimist,” he says. “Too bad it’s your handler who has the real ambitions. You’d make a great president some day.”

"I’m already president of your fan club," Ronan says, clipping the words sharp, hoping to leave marks. "It would be a conflict of interest."

Kavinsky stares at him for a few beats and Ronan can almost see his words getting through the haze of whatever Kavinsky’s taken, because eventually he leans his head back and laughs a little too loudly. “I hope you’ve made that white trash friend of yours treasurer. He seems like he knows how not to spend money.”

In his head Ronan sees himself lunge forward, roughly twist his hand in the collar of Kavinsky’s shirt, drag him down off the table, and beat that smug face with his fist until Kavinsky’s sunglasses are merely fragments of cheap plastic and he’s purple and yellow like the sunset. Instead he smiles and says, “if you talk about him like that again I will fucking kill you.”

"Jesus Lynch," Kavinsky says, shoving a handful of curly fries roughly into his mouth. "How many fucking boyfriends do you have?"

"Enough," Ronan says mildly.

"Certainly not, or you wouldn’t be here trolling for tail lights."

Both Kavinsky and Donovan laugh at that. Kavinsky sounds like Chainsaw trying to choke down a hot dog. He drops his legs to the concrete and slides fluidly off the table. He holds out his hand and Donovan drops a set of keys into it. “You break it you bought it,” he says.

Kavinsky starts to amble away from the bright lights of the awning. He stops at about fifty paces and looks over his shoulder. “You coming, Lynch? We’re gonna need an impartial opinion for this shit.”

Ronan looks between the two of them and realizes that this guy has just given Kavinsky the keys to his car. Ronan wouldn’t trust Kavinsky with the keys to an empty storage locker let alone a car. He shrugs and figures he might as well go along if for no other reason than he’ll be able to return it to the dude when Kavinsky eventually passes out in a drift of cocaine or whatever the fuck else he surely has stashed on his person. Maybe the guy’ll even get it back in one piece.

The car in question is painted a gunmetal grey and looks like a barracuda with the white fluorescent undercarriage lights of the Prelude next to it highlighting its curve. Kavinsky drops the hood on it as Ronan climbs into the passenger seat and adjusts it all the way back so he can be as far away from the windshield as possible in case it shatters in the course of things. Kavinsky falls roughly into the driver’s seat and starts it up, pressing his foot to the gas a few times just to hear the engine whir and whine. The sound makes goosebumps run up Ronan’s arms and god, does he love harnessed power. A car with a truly good engine could make a guy understand why Prometheus risked it all for just a small bowl of flames. Once you passed a spark on, it was hard to beat it out. 

Satisfied Kavinsky shifts the car into gear and floors it, buzzing the car well into third before they’ve even made it out of the parking lot. Ronan grips the seat as he’s thrown from one side to the other as Kavinsky fishtails onto the highway and soon enough they’re picking up speed. 

He fingers the injector switch and looks at Ronan sidelong. “Hold onto your tiara, princess,” he says, and flips it. The night air rushes around Ronan and he closes his eyes and pretends he’s flying. His heart races along with the sound of the asphalt beneath them.

Suddenly they’re rocketing forward and Ronan is pressed against the back of his seat. The car starts to shake around them and he can hear plastic rattling, the engine straining to work against Kavinsky’s demands, and over all of it Kavinsky himself, who is shouting like a cowboy in an old movie. 

"Fuck me! Fuck me!" he yells and sticks his head out of the open driver’s side window and lets out a triumphant yelp. NOS spent, the car begins to flag and the wind becomes a dull roar instead of a raging wave. Ronan opens his eyes again just in time to see Kavinsky pull right up to the rear end of a Honda before flipping the brights and jerking the car into the right hand lane. He shoves his fist out of the window and flips the occupants the bird before blowing around them. Then he pulls back into the left hand lane and slams on the brakes. 

For a split second Ronan is positive this is how he dies, but the driver of the Honda also slams on their brakes and lays on their horn. Cackling, Kavinsky speeds up and pulls away. 

A few more miles up the road there’s a rest stop and Kavinsky pulls off, sliding the car into one of the far spots near the edge of a wooded picnic area. He sits for a moment, letting the engine pant, before turning it off and climbing out. Ronan gets out too and stretches his legs. He’s shaking. He feels incredible.

Kavinsky leans against the back of the car and pulls a joint from his pocket. He lights it and inhales a few times before offering it to Ronan. Ronan, who is still itching and desperate for something to deaden the feeling of his skin where it’s stretched around his bones, accepts. 

He’s never smoked weed before. He’s never smoked anything before, so he guesses at what he’s supposed to do and inhales deeply. The back of his throat burns pleasantly and he can almost feel the heavy smoke settling into his lungs. 

"Get the fuck out you greedy asshole," Kavinsky drawls and snatches the joint away. "You’re gonna use up the whole thing."

Ronan, who is trying not to cough himself to pieces, doesn’t answer. Kavinsky laughs again and again and again like time is skipping and they stand together in the dark letting the weed work them over. They don't speak. Without threats they don't have anything to say to each other.

"You want more?" It’s not really a question. Ronan holds out his hand for the joint and Kavinsky bats it away. "Uh uh, I’m not letting you bogart the whole thing. You take it from when I’m done with it."

Ronan watches as Kavinsky takes a pull and the embers slide up the shaft of the joint. Then, Kavinsky leans toward him and gestures toward his mouth. Ronan stares at him dumbly. Kavinsky lets out a strangled noise and grabs the back of Ronan’s head. He drags him forward until their noses are almost touching and starts to blow the smoke out over Ronan’s lips and nose. Ronan finally realizes what he’s supposed to be doing and opens his mouth to accept it. He sucks it in and while he’s trying to hold it Kavinsky closes the space between them and slips his tongue into Ronan’s mouth. 

Ronan is angry at Kavinsky for this, or possibly he’s still angry from before, but he finds that for some reason he doesn’t care enough to pull away. Kavinsky brings up the hand holding the joint and cups the other side of Ronan’s face with it. The wet tip of the thing drags across his temple as Kavinsky runs a hand over his scalp, fingers catching at the short hairs. Ronan is tingling all over now, but it’s different than it was before. Soothing almost. 

He’s surprised by how Kavinsky doesn’t doesn’t drag him closer, doesn’t thrust their hips together and grind on him against the car, doesn’t run his fingers under the lines of his clothing. He’s surprised by this because it’s what he would do if he was kissing someone he gave a shit about. Instead it’s Kavinsky, who he’s learning is just as empty inside as he thought he was. A shell of a human, desperately devouring the world and trying to fill himself. 

Ronan’s surprised by how much he can relate to that. 

A screeching clang of alarms Ronan recognizes from some rap song or another blares from Kavinsky’s pocket and he he slips down a hand to pull it out without stopping the kiss. When he finally gets it up to his ear he pulls away, still gripping Ronan vice-like with his joint hand. “Yeah?” he says. 

Ronan can hear Prokopenko’s voice on the other end of the line. He can’t make out the words, but he knows what he’s saying anyway. They’ve been gone for much longer than they should have been. When are they going to bring the god damned car back?

Kavinsky slides his hand down Ronan’s cheek and neck before digging his fingers sharply into Ronan’s shoulders. “Tell him to hold his tits,” he says. “I’ll be back when I’m good and ready.” 

Ronan rolls out of Kavinsky’s grip and backs away. He wipes his hand across his mouth and rolls his tongue in his cheek, trying to scrub away the feel of Kavinsky that is slowly burning through him. He thinks this must be what possession feels like. Kavinsky spits onto the pavement near his feet and hangs up. 

"I guess the ride’s over," he says. He pulls the keys from his pocket and takes one last drag of the joint before flicking it into the grass. 

"That’s how forest fires start, asshole," Ronan says, because he feels like he needs to say something, like he needs to remind himself that he is the one with control over his body. 

"If trees didn’t want to burn they wouldn’t be made of wood," Kavinsky says. "Now get in the car or I’m fucking leaving you here." 

Ronan follows, knowing that the walk back would take him hours and that Gansey might not pick up his phone until morning out of spite. He can almost hear the lecture he’d get and he rolls his eyes preemptively. 

Kavinsky catches him doing it. “Don’t give me that shit,” he says. “A little fire always does a forest good.” 

Ronan kicks his feet onto the dashboard and lays his head against the pillar behind the door and considers it.


End file.
